Anywhere, Even in Death
by Rosalyn Angel
Summary: [HaldirLegolas] Anywhere: 'I would have followed him anywhere, to the ends of the world and back again and I would have never let him go.' Even in Death: 'I died. I followed him. Where did I lose my way?
1. Anywhere

Title: Anywhere

Author: Rosalyn Angel ( rose_angel_ff8_ff7@yahoo.com )

Pairing: Haldir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Summary: "I would have followed him anywhere, to the ends of the world and back again; and I would have never let him go."

Disclaimer: LotR. Not mine. It be Tolkien's.

Author's Notes: . . . movieverse-ness. ^_^ Legolas POV-ness. ^_^ Set a while after RotK; I'm not quite sure what happens except the basic, so forgive small mistakes. This is, after all, for my enjoyment; and it's also written for a contest held by Minka Greenleaf, of which I am hoping to do fairly decent on. ^_^ I toyed with several ideas for this story until I rested on this one: they all had the basic same meaning. I hope you enjoy! Please drop an e-mail comment and review. ^_~ 

I understand the whole Mandos' Halls concept pretty much . . . but I'm gonna take leeway on that, okay? Playing with an afterlife is fun, kids! - and, I guess, this is my own little version of how an Elf might grieve.

"Anywhere"

by: Rosalyn Angel

I still see him. He appears exactly the same. I suppose that is expected of Elves; but to see him standing in front of me, silver hair streaming down his back like stars, never ceases to amaze me. Not only is he the same, but he is there in the first place.

He is dead.

Do you call me mad? Can you not understand? It is simple, really. He is gone, he fell, he was slain, he is no longer in this world. But yet here he lingers, by my side, making less of a sound than even my people. He glides as a ghost across the floor, legs moving in a mockery of walk; but I know he is not actually there. Perhaps my mind is playing tricks on me and has been all of these years. I understand that he is gone, that he cannot be really there. But that does not mean I will let him go. That does not mean I will accept that he perished by the axe of a dirty Orc; he is too strong for that. He could not have possibly fallen . . . but yet he did; and this I know, and this I mourn for.

I mourn when I see the transparent image of him by my bed at night. He never speaks or makes the slightest sound: his grey clothes do not even rustle. He stands by the royal-sized bed of satin covers and pillows of white, and watches over me in my sleep. He thinks me unaware; but I feel cold whenever he is near, so I pretend to sleep the open-eyed sleep of Elves. That is the only time I can meet his gaze. All other attempts, when he knows me to be awake and I glance at him, he turns his head to the side as if disinterested.

Why, I do not know. I wonder, is he ashamed of me? Is he saddened and frustrated that I refuse to let him be at peace? Does he hear my soft whimpers when I lie in my chambers, alone, grieving; and does he bade me then to let him go? I do not know, and probably never will. Not a word is exchanged between me and my spirit of him. This, I suppose, is his silent way of begging: "You know me to be here and I will not talk; you have to accept that I am gone and cannot."

His eyes, when I see them at night, pretending to be asleep, are dull. He looks tired; and all of his movements are slow like a soft breeze. He never wears an expression besides longing, wishing, hoping; and that is when he is unguarded. When I try to catch his eye in the halls of the palace of Minas Tirith (I am staying there for a few days, now), his countenance is blank. It despairs me: I miss his smug smirk and that glint in his silver gaze. He used to be so prideful, even a little arrogant, and that I relished in. Now I see his faint image, so dull and lifeless, slipping through the corridors and towering over my supposedly slumbering form, and I know him to be dead, fallen at Helm's Deep; and it hurts. It hurts to see him so, because it screams at me the harsh reality: he is dead. He is dead.

But I will not let go.

Aragorn is worried. I have seen his sidelong glances, a hint of concern in his straight mouth and knitted dark eyebrows. I have heard him murmuring my name to his wife, Arwen, and I have seen her slowly nod, her eyes closed in thought. Do they fear for me? Of course Aragorn sees through my little mask I always wear, a mask all Elves tend to wear. We have known each other for long years; but I am sorry, my friend Aragorn, you cannot help me this time. There is no arrow to be pulled out, nor a poison to be subdued or a gash to be treated. There is no herb from the East, West, South, or North that can cure me. So please stop whispering your worry to your Queen: I can hear you.

I like to think that I hid it well until this point. Now I am too eager to snap my head around whenever I see his ghost near; the desire to see him again is too strong. No doubt an Elf, the Prince of Mirkwood, staring at something that no one else can see would cause alarm. But I find that I no longer care what they think of me, my former boundaries to keep my royal reputation slowly vanishing. I do not walk with my head held high or with a bounce to my step; my eyes are downcast to the marble floor and my strides are dragging only a little. I only want them to know that it is useless to worry, that whispering among themselves will not help; because there is no cure. I am fading, disappearing a little each time he turns his long ghostly face away from me.

I love him.

And he is dead.

And I am dying.

******

I remember the texture of his hands. His fingers were long and pale, smooth as my silken pillows; neat, clean, short nails were at their tips. His palm was slightly callused where he gripped his bow so much; but it was a pleasing type, not rough. I remember twining my fingers through his, both of them held up between our smiling faces, my hand seeming so thin to his strong one. The callousness scratched my white skin, only barely: it was not displeasing. They were his hands, and hands I knew well; every crease of skin when he curled his fingers I knew. Every way he waved his hand to dismiss a subject; or the way he stroked his narrow chin in thought; or how he released his arrow, aim true and clear, into the Golden Woods for practice – I knew it all.

But now I find it hard to recall every little detail I used to so easily picture. Have so many years passed? So many days and nights I have lived on, without his nimble fingers curling around my hand, warm and comforting, reassuring me that he was there. Now he never touches me, doesn't even meet my eyes. I feel his cold presence by my bedside, my eyes open and appearing to be glazed over in sleep; but really they are staring, and mourning, grieving, despairing for the hand that is no longer within reach.

I remember his eyes and when we met. A silver color, like his glistening hair, with thick dark eyebrows, always arched, over them. They froze me when he first pinned me with his gaze on my trip to Lothlorien, exploring the world with my friend Aragorn; and he asked in his clear demanding voice: "What purpose brings you here to the Wood?" Aragorn answered something about my status; and the silver Elf smiled his odd mysterious smile, then guided us through the Wood with the golden canopy. 

And still, even though he walked in the lead, all three of us on foot and making little noise, those dark silver eyes were being burned into my mind. My sight was not on the beautiful beech trees around me, their smooth grey columns reaching up high and topped with many brilliant leaves, but rather the back of the Marchwarden before me. Those stern eyes lingered in the back of my mind as I took in the sights of Lothlorien and spoke to the Lady Galadriel; and I think she knew, for she smiled beautifully and said no more.

I remember when he first grabbed my hand and I felt its texture. It was a friendly gesture, wishing for good luck as Aragorn and I departed from Lothlorien. I did not see him much then; but when I came back a second time, alone, I found myself drawn to his aura, walking his rounds with him and listening to his wonderful tales of old battles. I was still somewhat young and easily awed by the glory of victory, the shame and honor of defeat; and by the way he walked, spoke, smirked, and said my name as a roll off his tongue.

I remember when he first spun on his heel and wrapped his strong arms around me. I did not know what to say; so he sealed my mouth with his instead, saving me the embarrassment of stuttering. I was stiff, I know, for I had not felt another in such a way before: it was foreign, strange, and it made my mouth tingle. He leaned over me, my head angled up, his silver hair streaming along his and my shoulders. His hands, cupping my shoulder blades, kneaded softly and tried to release the tension he felt from me in his arms; this was a welcome and I almost melted, my legs wobbling. His grip tightened on me, keeping me on my feet: I felt weak and vulnerable to his touch; but that I did not mind, almost embraced. 

I don't think there was a place in my front that was not in contact with his; I felt warm, no, hot – like the sun was mercilessly beating down upon us. True it was day, but the weather was pleasant; red and golden leaves fluttered all around us. I only heard them though, landing with their brethren on the forest floor; because my blue eyes were squeezed shut, eyelashes pressing against my cheek. Everything was a rush: my heart pounded, my blood surged. All sensation was focused on his touch and his lips against mine, softly sucking; and here I moaned, and I was lost in him forever.

All this I remember, and more. _Remember_, for that is all it is: a memory.

******

Again I am in my bed; and he stands over me, a shadow of light against the dim of the comfortable room. The pillows and sheets, white with golden vines weaving through, feel as though they are swallowing me up. There is but a thin streak of light from the stars peeking through the dark curtains, darkening one side of his face and lighting the other, not reflecting in his now-dull eyes. I stare, unmoving, always a master of deception, up at his face and hair like the moonlight also paled. He looks down upon me, not bothering to tilt his head, and his eyes sluggishly roam along my jaw, my cheeks, my brow; they flit briefly across my blue orbs, then travel down my neck and my green silk-covered chest. Here they stop where the covers begin, one of my hands lying across my stomach and the other curled next to my head, and they go back to my jaw and start over again.

How many nights this has occurred, I cannot count. I dare not move for fear of him turning away again; I lavish in what little attention I receive: at my bedside, feeling him striding after me down the halls or standing in the room I occupy, far away and far out of reach, silently always observing. This is the time, at night when I pretend to sleep, when he gets so close and unknowingly allows me to gaze upon him. Even in his deathly state, he still glows to me of his pride and radiant aura, lulling me in and promising pretty things.

Suddenly he moves and I try hard not to flinch; he has not moved by my bedside until morning, for all these years. His hand, that beautiful hand, slowly reaches out and grazes the long fingers along my neck. I feel naught but a brush of cool air, crawling down my skin and causing me to shiver. I think, perhaps, something flickered in my eyes at the contact, because his hand draws away and his head turns to the side slowly, averting his eyes elsewhere.

I miss his hands; I want to twine my fingers through his again. I want to feel that callousness and his body against mine, like I have so many times. I want to hear his voice speak my name like a song once more; I want to hear his glorious tales of old said with such vigor that I was put utterly in awe of the figure before me. I want him, back to me.

I sit up, the mattress compressing under my light weight and my legs tangling in the blankets. My golden hair, long and shining, is loose from its braids and falls in a wave around my face and shoulders, perfect and never out of place. He does not look back even as my sad demeanor gazes at his, trying to make eye contact; he instead stares at the dark carpet with the sort of detachment I often see in him now. I have not uttered a word to this ghost of my lover ever since Helm's Deep; I feared if I did, he would vanish without a trace: so sacred is the silence he carries. But now, when he clenches his hand at his side and narrows his eyes, I feel the bubble of words in my chest.

"Haldir!" I cry his name. My voice is hoarse, low and questioning, crudely rubbing against my throat. "Why do you flinch away from me? Haldir!"

For a moment there is nothing except a faint wind from the outside, seeping through the closed windows. He does not stir and nothing affects him; I wonder if he hears me at all. But then I notice his mouth move, curling around words and rolling his tongue. Yet no words or sound is produced: the air is dry and dead silent as his mouth dances on nothing. I expected, perhaps, to hear words in my head or even through my ears; but there is nothing, and my face falls – we are worlds apart.

But as I watched him talk with no sound, I begin to understand his silent words. They slowly form, piece by piece, in my head, building into an intricate pattern of pleas that all end up in three words:

_ Let me go._

My breath is caught in my throat; his lips stop moving. My eyes are wide, dark, deep-set and disbelieving. After all of these years I have held on, hoping, needing to be next to him again and feel his hands; and he tells me to let him go. Can he not see? I cannot just _let him go_ as if all of those nights together were nothing, as if all of those sweet whispers were nonsense: how many times has he murmured his love to me? And now the promises for happiness are replaced: _Let me go._

"You do not know of what you ask!" I shout, creases in my brow as my distressed eyes eagerly try to meet his.

Again his mouth moves:

_ Then come with me._

I stare at him; he all silver and myself gold, precious metals in the moonlight.

_ Or let me go._

My breath wavers, quivering and coming out in short puffs; my bottom lip shakes and I toss the blankets carelessly down to the foot of the bed, intending to stand and face him; but finally, at long last, he turns his eyes to mine: they are burning now, no longer dull, lit from within with a fire so strong it is blinding. I am stunned, unable to tear my blue gaze away: I cannot think and have to concentrate merely on breathing, just keep myself going. My breath sounds harsh in the room, loud in my ears like a hurricane; and his eyes! Elbereth, his eyes; he is looking at me! He must see my longing, my grief and need for him now; for I know there is much reflected in my face, crouched on the bed like an unruly child.

_ Come with me_, he said. To where, I do not know; but his eyes, they look at me so, and again I feel weak and vulnerable in his presence like I used to. He must know I cannot let him go: I love him too much. But what of the other option? How could I possibly follow him to wherever he must go? He is everywhere, it seems to me: in my heart, my mind, before my eyes, all around me and closing in. I am trapped: my chest constricts. His presence is now overwhelming and I whimper, eyes locked with that silver inferno. I feel panicked: what must I do? How must I answer? After all of these years of downcast eyes and dragging feet, he finally meets my gaze and I am speechless.

"I do not . . . understand," I manage to whisper.

His mouth does not move, but his hand does: it reaches up again, toward me. I see every crease in the fold of his palm, the long pale fingers and neat nails. I want to touch it dearly, to feel it again; I want its warmth and its companionship and love. I want those fingers to trap mine and to squeeze and never let go: how I miss them . . .

_ Come with me._

My hand is drawn toward his like a moth to the flame, and once more our fingers intertwine like two halves, perfectly melding into each other. I look at them in wonder; they appear so seamless together and his hand is exactly how I remember; yes, the callousness is perfectly in place and the length is precisely right. This must be his hand and those must be his eyes – I miss him! I wish none of this ever happened: he would be alive next to me – and I would not have to let him go. I would have followed him anywhere, to the ends of the world and back again; and I would have never let him go.

And I cannot, so the choice was decided for me.

_ I love you._

It is then when I feel numb and blind; and I crumple to the soft bed enveloping me in its cool sheets. It is then when I realize, as I fade away, that my grief, my love, has finally killed me.

_ Farewell._

** ~fin~**


	2. Even in Death

Title: Even in Death

Author: Rosalyn Angel ( rose_angel_ff8_ff7@yahoo.com )

Pairing: Haldir/Legolas

Rating: PG

Summary: "I died. I followed him. Where did I lose my way?"

Disclaimer: Do you see Haldir and Legolas gettin' jiggy wit' it at any time? No? Thought so.

Author's Notes: . . . egads. ^_^ B E W A R E! This is a SEQUEL to my fic "Anywhere," and I'm very frightened it's going to ruin the original! I had this in mind after finishing "Anywhere," as some may be able to tell from the cryptic ending of it (the last line, "Farewell," got people to send me e-mails basically saying: "What happened? Aren't they together now? Why did Haldir say bye?"). So, I said to myself: "Self, why are you leaving these poor people in the dark? Why did you end it so cruelly there? Are you really that sadistic? . . . yes, self, I know I am; but that's not the point."

I'm just really struggling with making this story as good as, or perhaps better than, the original. I would hate for it to ruin anyone's views or thoughts on the first one, so I'm really iffy on posting this up; but so many people asked me what had happened. And I thought I could slip that by you guys in the ending; but no! All of you are just too smart for me. ^_^

Again this is in Legolas' POV, set after "Anywhere." (I strongly urge you to read that first, if you haven't, or else you might be like: ". . . what's going on?" It can be found on www.fanfiction.net under my pen name of Rosalyn Angel since this story would be posted up with it as a second chapter of sorts, or at www.libraryofmoria.com; it is also scattered across the internet in various places. Bwahah!) This also deals with my view of the _agony_ of Mandos' Halls and the absolution it brings at the end. It's . . . _very strange_, darker than the original (I like to think so, at least)! Be warned: if you were content/happy with the ending of "Anywhere," you might not want to read this. I wouldn't want to ruin your view on it!

Once more- *is afraid of writing sequels in general* o_o;; *prays it'll be all right*

"Even in Death"

by: Rosalyn Angel

Farewell.

Is he here? Can I stretch out and touch him – is he within my reach now? Have I not waited long enough? Is he next to me now, even though I cannot see? Is he looking at me at this moment, with his dark silver eyes; will he allow me to meet his gaze forever now? Will we look at each other and hold each other's hands – I have waited long. I have done what needs to be done. I am tired; why am I here? Is he . . .

I do not understand.

There is nothing but darkness around me. I have no hands to grasp his, I have no eyes to see his. I have not a breath or a heart beat; I just am. There is nothing here besides my mind, my thoughts and my memories. I neither walk nor float; I do nothing but think. I have no other sensations: I can no longer run through the golden forest, feeling my feet dash across the fallen leaves; I can no longer smell the sweet sap of the trees; I can no longer hear the birds' songs in the clear morning air – I am alone, with absolutely nothing around me, not even my own body.

Do I fear this? Yes. I fear this. I wonder, how long will I linger here? Have I done something wrong, some ill-begotten thing, for me to deserve to be put here? I have done nothing –

Come with me.

I died. I followed him. Where did I lose my way? Is he not supposed to be next to me now? This is worse than before; worse than my ghost of him looking away from me! Now I see nothing but my own mind, my own dreadful twisted mind; and I have no one to turn to but myself. I cannot even gaze upon his face, though dull and lifeless it was, to be reassured that he was somewhere – perhaps waiting for me? Maybe he is still somewhere, waiting for me to find him. When I do, he will smirk and say I took long enough; then he will open his arms and kiss me. I will feel weak and vulnerable to his touch, but he will hold me up and whisper of pretty things; and I will cry and say I missed him and speak about how I longed for his hands and that I love him . . .

I cannot move. I can do nothing but think. He may as well be right next to me and I would not know; I would not be able to reach out and feel his silver hair slip through my fingers, his hand clasping mine – this is worse than before; take me back; I want to go back! It hurts . . . can no body hear me? Nay, I have no voice; I cannot sing or call his name – take me back!

"What brings you here to the Wood?"

I have memories to cling to. They flit across my mind, and there I can see them; I can hear and smell and touch them there. But only if I remember: most things are blurred or missing from times passing by too much, and I cannot recall them clearly; people's faces are absent from their hazy bodies as they move in a dance across my mind. Only he can I remember every detail, every movement; and it is agony. My mind tortures me with these memories and with the nothingness that surrounds me: I have no control over how they proceed and when they are shown to me, like scenes in a play being acted out with ghastly performers.

He is there, but I cannot touch him: only this past version of myself may do so. It is like watching my love caress and kiss another – so alien do I feel to it all! I see, hear, feel, smell nothing; but there is this _other_ able to do all I crave, with my face and smile and walk, luring him in the way I did . . . yet we are connected somehow, and teasing pieces of my life brush across my mind – it is ineffable; I am confused and frustrated. I want to scream: "Get away from him! Haldir, can you not see that I am here? That is not me: it is a memory of me. Love, I am lost and alone! Why did you leave me here? Why was I brought here, already faded and with nothing left but my past?" But I have no voice: I cannot be heard.

Is he angry at me? Have I done something wrong? All those nights when he stared at me, was it in hate? The cool indifference of those eyes, and the fire they held as they were turned on me, were they animosities? Did he intentionally leave me here, to suffer within my own mind, to rot and wither away further? 

No, no – he would not do such a thing! These thoughts cannot be my own! They flood my head not of my own accord, dark whispers of dark things, trying to convince and lull me with wrong answers. 

_ Let me go._

A plea – a plea it was. Did I make him suffer like I am now? It was my fault he was made to linger; I held him back for my own self-pity. Or did he choose to stay behind? Then why did he wish of me that? I could not hold him back with my own hands; he could have simply vanished, out of my sight, and rest wherever he choose to. But yet he did not: so it was my doing; I made him stay. He is angry at me! He told me to let him go, but I did not do so. I am selfish and immature, needy and dependent –

_ Let me go!_

He hates me! He is yelling at me; his voice has twisted itself into some horrible bellowing thing. The memories in my mind blur and mash together, grinding into each other until they are inseparable and indistinguishable. I cannot see my precious images of his silver form any longer; all are crude and dark images of what they once were: trees are bent and leafless, people are blackened and muttering among themselves of evil news, the ground is distorted and sways this way and that, the sky is rumbling and screaming – he is screaming! He sounds to be in pain; his voice seems so close, echoing and crying out and enveloping all:

_ Let me go!_

I grow frantic: stop! I say. I am sorry! I did not wish to hurt you! If I knew it pained so much . . .

He wanted to end it; he resorted to all possibilities. If I would not let go, he would take me with him; then he would abandon me as a punishment. He hates me, he must; I was so unknowingly cruel – will he forgive me? He must know I am sorry, he must! 

No . . . no, it is all right: these notions are not true. They are fabrications of fell things. I must not listen, I must not heed . . .

He hates me . . .

******

I want to quiver, tremble, whimper, close my ears and my eyes. I am not allowed these comforts: I am forced in my bodyless state to endure the harsh recollections, the disfigured and crooked visions. They take the inklings of evil from every place and bring them out fully, laid out across my mind. This is a wretched place. I try not to think much: the awful pondering of him might return. I want to juststop it all and not exist; anything would be better than this, better than the warped image of his eyes in hatred and his hands reaching to wrench and strangle.

There has to be a better explanation. He would not do this to me . . . would he? No, no, he would not! There is another reason, some sound reason, some loving reason; his voice was too kind when he said _come with me_: it was an offer, a way to a lovely dreaming place with him at my side and me at his. I calm myself, sooth my mind, and think.

He always looked away when I tried to meet his gaze. Was that shame on my behalf? Nay, his demeanor at brief intervals was full of longing. Longing for something – for me? Was he suffering like I was at that exact moment? Longing for the one he could no longer have, to touch my face and trace the curves of my neck and shoulders? Was it too much to meet my gaze – did he feel he would collapse?

Was he sad? For himself, for me? For us both, for the lost memories to be made . . . for leaving me behind in the world? Did that pain him, when I dragged my feet and cast my eyes to the floor; did he pity me then? Did he wish to end my ache . . .

The darkened memories twist again, wavering.

His eyes! I remember now: they stared into mine at night, not with loathing, but with hope and that same sad longing; he saw me and my pain – and yes, he had his own; but me, mine – he saw and knew how much I miss him . . .

_ Let me go._

The screaming dies down to a soft whisper, not muttering but a cool brush of air, caressing like a lover; it is almost as if it promises me: everything will be all right. The memories slowly begin to fade, flickering and grasping for the ruthless control they held before. But the caress of his voice stays strong.

He wanted me to let him go, not because he hated me for keeping him there, but because he saw me hurting and wished for me peace; he knew if I moved on, I might have happiness. He knew this and he tried to reach me so, but I had foolishly not understood! I could not have let him go anyway: I love him beyond measure.

_ Come with me._

A solution! A beautiful solution: he would not have left me to suffer thus. He offered his hand to find happiness elsewhere, perhaps in another life somehow; be it a thousand days until we rest together, or a thousand years. A _farewell_ until then: he knew what would happen here, he experienced it briefly before I unconsciously called him back out of my yearning. He knew we would be separated, beloved Haldir! I understand! A small thing of hope, but to desperately cling to it: that is worth bearing the cruelty of this place – these Halls. Yes, that is where I am: the Halls! He must be here, also like me: isolated and sorting through his thoughts!

The memories disappear all together. I am left in darkness, complete and utter darkness; but this does not bother me. For the long time I have stayed here, I feel content. I understand now: he loves me. He wants me to be free. And soon, maybe soon, maybe later, maybe _now_ . . . I will see him again.

A silver figure flutters far away, into my vision: I can see now through real eyes and hear with real ears; I no longer rely on mere remembrances. The figure pauses and turns: I can barely outline it, but I know it is he. Without a sound, surrounded by blackness, he walks, feet skimming nothing but a bottomless floor. Yet he moves straight toward me; and I see him clearer and clearer: thin silver strands of hair swaying as he tilts his head; long pale face soft and welcoming; firm lips leisurely turned up in a smile; easy strides with graceful legs and crossed arms, as if to say: it took you long enough, love.

He reaches me and I want to cry: the tears burn at the rims of my eyes. I feel so happy; he is there, right before me! After all these long years, all of this brutal pain, he is _there_ and I _love him_ . . .

His hand draws toward me; and then I am no more.

******

A young Elf, of but a hundred years or so yet appearing in his early twenties, kicks his booted foot into the ground and sends a flurry of pale golden leaves up into the air, making them twirl in the flickering sunlight that peers through the forest canopy. Stories have told of this place, of its beauty and magnificence; but to him they are stories told for children's ears, for the forest is no longer as majestic as it was once. Its Queen left it, they say; it misses her dearly and it began to decay in her leaving. The grey bark is a little rougher and a little darker, and the branches are a little more gnarled. But the leaves remain golden, covering the ground and hanging onto their trees on a life's whim, before they snap off and spin to join their brothers.

He runs a long hand through his waist-length hair, the same hue as the leaves and braided in a civilian manner. Though he is a mere soldier in the Lord Celeborn's (who now lives in a place he titles East Lorien) arsenal, all of his friends tell him he has a type of air that demands to be obeyed: he is to be promoted soon to a higher status, though not one of great importance. The days are peaceful, but there are still stray Orcs about. He has felled many, a considerable count, and is recognized for it. Though his true power only shines when one sees him: he holds his head high and proud, like royalty, but yet he is kind and forgiving; and his smile softens his normally impassive face.

Long has he heard of the old realm of Lothlorien from his parents, civilians like him; and of the Nine Walkers that saved the world hundreds of years ago. The story intrigues him, but one stands out among the rest: an Elf prince of Mirkwood, who died mysteriously one night. The young Elf is curious about the Prince and feels drawn to the Wood of Lorien. He considers it respect for his own kin and appreciation for what was once glorious. Whatever is it, he is there now, under the golden sunlit canopy; and he walks with his slim hands folded behind his back, enjoying the peace and quiet of a deserted forest.

There is a rustle to his right and he spins, hands clasping the bow on his back and an arrow from his quiver. The arrow is set faster than the eye can follow and he pulls the string taut, darting bright blue eyes around the columns of trees, searching for any signs of possible danger. His breath quickens in anticipation for battle, his palms gripping fiercely onto his weapons, his fair face drawn into a concentrating frown. He hears another clamor behind him and turns quickly. A form is suddenly in front of him – he lets go of his arrow with a shout of surprise, and it swiftly sticks into the ground at the stranger's feet with a _twang_.

"Ai!" the stranger yelps in a boyishly low voice, sounding the same age as the first. "I gave you warning of my coming, yet you shot at me still!"

The Elf feels a flare of defiance in his chest at the indirect insult. He swings his bow onto his back and bends to yank his arrow from the dirt, sliding it into his quiver with the rest. "You did not speak! I took you for an Orc!"

"An Orc?" the other sputters, crossing his arms. "I was merely approaching you as an Elf should on another: quietly yet distinctively. It is you who are eager to loose arrows! What brings you here, to my secret place?"

It is then when the young Elf looks up and meets the eyes of the stranger; he becomes transfixed at the image and freezes in his place.

Blue meets with silver, and their hands reach out to shake in a warm first greeting.

** ~fin~**


End file.
